


Stayin' Alive

by cognomen, MayGlenn



Series: Greatest Hits of the Seventies [7]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Established Relationship, Friendship/Love, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Shaving, Tag to Coffin for Starsky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-17 04:36:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14825363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/pseuds/MayGlenn
Summary: “Detective? Detective Hutchinson?”Hutch jumps when a nurse touches his arm. Maybe he really had fallen asleep there holding that wall up. “Yeah? Sorry. Yeah?”“We’re going to move your partner to a room, so if you’ll just stay in the waiting area, we can call you when he’s settled.”Hutch takes a deep breath to tell her there is no way he’s letting Starsky out of his sight for one minute when another hand lands on his shoulder.“Come on, son. Walk with me.”Dobey. And Hutch already yelled at him once today, so he’s probably used up his lifetime quota, and he probably shouldn’t test him again. Hutch glances back at Starsky, watching orderlies and nurses get ready to move him.“Hutch, he’s okay now."





	1. Chapter 1

By the time they let Hutch even see Starsky again, he’s sporting so many tubes and wires that Hutch can barely see his partner under all of it. The doctor says he’ll be fine, he’s gonna make it, and really, that’s all Hutch cares about, though at some point he’s told it’ll still be a hard road to recovery, and he vaguely listens. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Starsky, like he’s fallen asleep standing up with his eyes open, watching Starsky’s chest going up and down. He’s wearing an oxygen mask, but he is breathing on his own, so that’s something. 

“Detective? Detective Hutchinson?” 

Hutch jumps when a nurse touches his arm. Maybe he really had fallen asleep there holding that wall up. “Yeah? Sorry. Yeah?” 

“We’re going to move your partner to a room, so if you’ll just stay in the waiting area, we can call you when he’s settled.” 

Hutch takes a deep breath to tell her there is no way he’s letting Starsky out of his sight for one minute when another hand lands on his shoulder. 

“Come on, son. Walk with me.” 

Dobey. And Hutch already yelled at him once today, so he’s probably used up his lifetime quota, and he probably shouldn’t test him again. Hutch glances back at Starsky, watching orderlies and nurses get ready to move him. 

“Hutch, he’s okay now. Come on.” 

Hutch lets himself be drawn away, and he doesn’t stop staring after his friend until the door actually swings to in front of him. He goes a little weak, like the sight of Starsky was the only thing keeping him functioning, and he remembers he’s been up for twenty-four hours at this point, and so has Dobey. “They got coffee?” 

“There’s a machine,” Dobey says, his tone just gruff and assertive enough to break through Hutch’s haze, before he guides Hutch down onto a couch in a waiting room, and feeds quarters into a tall brown vending machine before it spits out two cups of hot coffee for them. It’s a little sludgy and old, with a bitter burned taste, but it’s bracing. 

“You did good work out there today,” Dobey says, when they’ve both had a sip, and he finishes his cup even though it’s terrible. “You both did. He’s going to be alright now, and you’re the one who did that. I’m not saying relax now, but you can take a breath.”

Hutch nods, zombie-like, and takes a breath like it's an order. He accepts the coffee and gulps it so he doesn't have to taste it. “Thanks, Cap. I'll believe that when Starsky's back on his feet.”

Hutch rubs his face and shift in the chair. “Can I take some time off, at least til he's out of the hospital?” 

Hutch would be happy with unpaid leave. What he is unhappy with is not being able to keep an eye on Starsky. Almost losing him still feels so raw and open and Hutch doesn't know what he'll do when Starsky goes back to his own place by himself. Maybe replace all the locks and fix all the windows and maybe sleep outside in his car, just so he can keep an eye on him.

Dobey looks at Hutch as if he could look right through him. “You can have some time off on one condition. You don’t spend all of it here. The first step to believing is having a little faith. And no offense, Hutchinson, but you could use a shower.”

Hutch gives his captain a hard stare. “Captain, Starsky was nearly murdered in his own bed. If you think I’m leaving him alone in a hospital when an evil genius and Bellamy’s widow still want him dead, not to mention half a dozen other freaks in this city who would waste him if they could, you can think again.”

He sits back sullenly, and drains his coffee down to the grains. “They have showers here.” 

Dobey looks down at Hutch like a tolerant parent might a particularly tired toddler. “Your evil genius committed a felony and is being charged with it, there won’t be any bail until a probable cause hearing is heard in a week, and even then you know that’s an unlikely outcome after attacking an officer.”

Feeding another quarter into the machine, Dobey brings Hutch a second cup of coffee. He already knows Hutch has a more solid constitution than this, but Dobey’s also been through this a few times over the years. “What you need to do is take care of yourself so that when they cut him loose from here, you can take care of him. If you don’t want to take the condition I offered, I’ll expect you back on shift tomorrow evening as scheduled.” 

Hutch glares at his boss, and even opens his mouth to protest, but a little voice in his head that sounds an awful lot like Starsky reminding him about his yelling-at-his-boss quota makes him shut his mouth again. And Dobey isn't being entirely unreasonable: all he said was go home and shower, by the time he’s done with that they will practically be on visiting hours again. 

“Yes, sir,” he says, instead, and Dobey looks satisfied, maybe even a little smug, or relieved, anyway. “I just want to be here when he's awake, and then, maybe, if I could work half-days until he's back? He can stay at my place until he's strong enough, there's less stairs at mine…”

“You can have the time off if you agree to listen to your partner about taking care of yourself,” Dobey says, throwing out his empty cup and pausing to rub his own face, wearily. “Which is  _ not _ something I ever thought I’d say.”

Hutch chuckles at that, wearily. “Fine, Cap. I promise.” 

Hutch stands, too, goes to the nurse’s desk to leave his contact information and to ask when visiting hours are—eight in the morning, which was only three hours from now—and he goes out with Dobey. 

Hutch is driving Starsky’s car, which he feels guilty about, feels him missing more acutely here. He wonders if he could just fall asleep in here for three hours, where it smells like Starsky (or maybe Starsky smells like it) and go back in at eight, but he’s pretty sure Dobey will find out about it, somehow. They didn’t think Starsky would be awake for a while, anyway, so he’d just be watching him sleep. 

Sleep. Hutch almost thinks he  _ could  _ lay down for a few hours. So he turns the key in the ignition and heads for home. 

He does lay down, and does sleep until hunger wakes him at noon, when he makes a smoothie that he doesn’t enjoy, takes a quick shower, waters his plants, and then packs a bag, including extra clothes for Starsky this time. 

He’s back at the hospital in time to catch a nurse in Starsky’s room. A few people have already sent flowers, including Huggy, whose bunch is the biggest, and they line the walls of the room, making it look a little brighter. 

“How is he?” Hutch asks. “Has he been awake?” 

“No, not yet,” she says, giving Hutch a small smile that’s meant to reassure him. “They only just took the heavy sedatives off his drip, now that the worst parts are starting to be over. He may come around a few times and be pretty out of it, not remember things, be a little loopy. That’s all normal, okay?” 

Hutch nods, moving into the space, glad he didn’t miss Starsky. “Okay. Thanks. I—I’m his partner.” 

“I know who you are.” She indicates a chair, though she has to move a teddy bear from Kiko out of it to leave a place for Hutch to sit. “Would you like me to bring you some coffee? Not that junk from the machine, we have the real stuff at the nurse’s station.”

“Oh, ah, when you’re next down here. I don’t want to be any trouble,” Hutch says, setting the bag down and looking down at Starsky. There’s almost as many tubes this time, and though there’s not a breathing mask, there’s a cannula fixed under his nose, and IV drips in both arms, and a few monitors on his chest. His lips look dry, like the rest of his skin, paper-fragile and pale. Hutch wants to take him up in his arms and hold him, but he knows that won’t help. “What can I do for him?” 

The nurse gives Hutch a friendly pat, and then passes him the teddy-bear, maybe because he looks like he needs to have something to hold. “Just be there for him. He’ll appreciate it.”

Hutch nods, and she only leaves him for a few minutes without coffee, because the quiet of the room with the soft beeps of the machines is probably almost maddening, but she has confidence he’ll pull through. “Don’t worry, Detective. It’ll be a bad memory by this time next year, and the year after that I bet you’ll laugh about it.”

“I sure hope so,” Hutch sighs, taking Starsky’s hand and squeezing the limp fingers. They're a little cold, and Hutch massages his hand absently.

It’s still a long time to recover, but soon after she leaves him with the coffee, Starsky comes around the first time, his hand instinctively coming up to rub his eyes which feel gummy, before he pauses to look at the IV in his arm like he’s never seen anything like it before. 

“Hey, buddy,” Hutch says, running a hand through his hair and smiling. 

Starsky manages to stay awake long enough to smile at Hutch, woozily, then he’s out again, just like the nurse said he might be. 

The next time, about an hour later, he almost makes it stick, surprising Hutch with a question. “Hey, am I missing the world series?”

Hutch is already by his side again, squeezing his fingers and rubbing his shoulder. Starsky’s eyes look a little glazed, but Hutch is so happy to see them open he doesn't notice. “Buddy, it's not even April yet.”

Starsky is sporting crusty gunk in the corners of his eyes and mouth, and Hutch picks them away with his fingernails. “How you feeling, pal? You want some water?”

Scrunching up his face to avoid such mother-henning, Starsky works his tongue against the roof of his mouth, then seems to discover the cannula, and the IV again. There’s a few long minutes where his thoughts churn over all this information, and then the addition fails to come to any proper fruition. Hutch is here, though, so it’s probably alright. “I suppose a burger and some beer is out of the question?”

Hutch grins, glad that Starsky is back to showing signs of life. “Not right now, but if you're good, I'll bring you all the burgers and beers you want once you’re out of here.”

Hutch angles the bed up just a bit, and nudges a straw against his lips, and Starsky drinks. At first just a sip, and then his body makes an urgent demand and he gets his hands under the cup, abandons the straw, and drinks deeply, crunching on an ice cube when he’s finished the water. It seems to pull him back together, though he’s still a little shaky.

“Seems like you pulled through for me, partner,” Starsky says, open and honest and grateful. “Bad news for you, it means you don’t get to keep my car.”

“Oh, right, your car,” Hutch says with an exaggerated wince, scooting his chair closer and resting a hand in Starsky's hair. He still hasn't let go of the hand he was holding. “Well, I didn't want to tell you until now, but you look strong enough to know that I had to trade it for the poison compound. He almost didn't want it with all the dings…”

“ _ Kenneth _ ,” Starsky says, going straight for the kill, mom-voice and all. “You’d know better than to show your face around here if that was true. Even if you did save my life.”

Starsky squeezes Hutch’s fingers. It helps that he can see his own car-keys on the table.

“All  _ right _ ,” Hutch laughs, but it’s really more a sigh of relief, and his eyes go slightly pained—at how close it was, at how close it still is, at seeing Starsky covered in wires and tubes and looking almost frail. 

Hutch leans forward and plants a kiss on Starsky’s cheek, what he wanted to do when they had carted Starsky upstairs for what very well might have been the last time, and they couldn’t—or didn’t need to—say anything. The  _ I love you _ s that the world wasn’t ready to hear passed between them without words. 

“It’s good to see you, Dave.” He means it as a joke, to get Starsky back for calling him Kenneth, but it comes out serious, somehow.

“I hope you don’t feel offended if I fall asleep again,” Starsky says. “I feel like I got backed into by a truck. I didn’t expect to be sore all over.”

“You should sleep, buddy,” Hutch agrees. “I'll be here, or on my way back, when you wake up, okay?”

His hands move a little dreamily, slowly like they were weighed down and disconnected from his body; probably the painkillers. He looks up at Hutch, and still sees a lot of anguish, and manages half a smile. “Hey, partner, you okay? What happened out there?”

Hutch lets Starsky’s hand play over his arm before reclaiming the limb, gently grounding his fingers. “It was Cheryl’s dad who came up with the compound, Bellamy just administered it. We got it from him with minutes to spare. I guess most of your organs tried to shut down, so that’s why you feel like shit. But you’re gonna be okay.”

Hutch leans down and kisses Starsky’s hand, hoping no one’s looking in at the window. 

“Say, I knew all that endurance training I do for my guts would pay off,” Starsky says, turning his hand over to stroke Hutch’s cheek, then pat his neck. “You say all that six alarm chili doesn’t do me any good, but I got tough organs.”

Hutch huffs. “Right, guess I can’t complain anymore.” 

Starsky doesn’t make it much further than that before his breathing evens out again, and he’s asleep. It seems easier this time, softer, like real sleep instead of unconsciousness, and Hutch breathes another little sigh of relief that even half-dead, Starsky was putting forth an effort to try to make him laugh. He watches over him in the quiet, eventually picking up the library books he had brought along to try to keep himself awake while Starsky sleeps. 

The nurse comes around after a few hours with broth and jell-o for Starsky, and has to wake Hutch up, bent over Starsky’s feet on top of a copy of  _ The Last of the Mohicans _ .

“Clear liquids only today, I’m sorry. Good to see you up, Detective,” she says, before passing Hutch a sandwich and fresh coffee. 

Hutch looks a little guilty and not a little nervously at Starsky, knowing, somehow, that his partner is going to wheedle this sandwich out of him. 

“Thanks, Jenny,” Hutch says, remembering her name from last time, and rubbing his eyes as an excuse to break eye contact with Starsky, who is already wheedling. “How’s the pain level, Starsk? You need anything else from this fine young lady?” 

“Actually, I think I’m okay. Sore, but I think if I had any more drugs, I’d be asleep,” he says, checking the veracity with Jenny, who shrugs. 

“Pretty likely,” she says. “We’re going to start taking the level down tomorrow, the worst of the cramping should be over by then.”

“See that, the worst of the cramping,” Starsky says, using humor to combat the idea that this wasn’t  _ over already _ . “When do I get to go home?”

“Hmm,” she says, and then shrugs. “You’re young and healthy. If your body springs back like it should, maybe in two days.”

“See, Starsk, don’t push it. You got it good here, right? All the Jell-O you can eat!” Hutch says, playfully enthusiastic, and at least the nurse giggles at him. “We actually haven’t seen the Doc today, though. Do you think he could come around sometime, to answer any questions?”

Hutch has several, and he raises his eyebrows to Starsky about whether he has any. 

“I’ll see when he gets in,” Jenny says, smiling as she moved the bed to help Starsky sit up. 

“How’s that, buddy, comfortable?” Hutch asks, when she’s gone. 

“Yeah,” Starsky says, with a faint wince, but he drinks all his broth, and then the cup of water, and then goes back to eying Hutch’s sandwich. “Except I’m still hungry. I’ll trade you my jell-o for half that sandwich and a sip of your coffee.”

He pours on the charm, knowing how to usually get his way. It only partially works while he’s still not feeling too well, and the doctor’s orders work against him. 

“How about you start with a fourth, and keep your Jello,” Hutch negotiates. “We don't know what solid food will do to your stomach, so take it easy. Lots of chews before you swallow.”

Hutch uses the little plastic knife to cut off part of the wonderbread sandwich. “It’s not even very good…” 

Starsky eats everything he’s presented, and doesn’t seem to care that the sandwich isn’t very good—Hutch has always had a different definition for that anyway. It sticks a little as he tries to swallow it, and navigating his hands with IVs is a little annoying but he manages to at least feed himself before he relaxes back against the pillows.

“Better than wheat germ,” he decides at last. “You got the day off?”

Hutch watches his irrepressible partner with a fond smile. “Yeah, as much time off as I need. Or  _ you  _ need, to keep you from going batty in here. I can also go work half-days if you get sick of looking at me.”

“That's awful generous,” Starsky says. “Hopefully I won't be in here so long I'd go batty, but you might.”

Hutch laughs and gets up to clear away the food and refill Starsky’s water, though he leaves his coffee within Starsky’s reach in case he wants some—that’s practically a clear liquid, anyway. He returns to the chair sat close to the bed, and lays a hand over Starsky’s legs and rubs his shins absently. “You feeling okay? You want me to put the bed back so you can sleep?”

“I think I'm starting to regret that sandwich,” Starsky admits. “I'm a little queasy, now.”

He reaches out for Hutch and squeezes his hand like he could transfer some of the pain out, and the contact does seem to make him feel better. “What about you, aren't you sick of all this nonsense already?”

Hutch’s frown-lines deepen, and he scoots closer so he can lay a hand on Starsky’s stomach, like he might rub it out like a muscle cramp. “You’re the sick one, remember? What would I have to be sick of?—except maybe being right all the time.” 

It’s a gentle enough jab, but the  _ Listen to the goddamned nurse next time _ , is implied. 

“Well, I’m sick of being sick already,” Starsky grumbles. “I’d rather be at home.”

For all his grousing, he only has to shift position a couple of times before he’s out again, his hand folded over Hutch’s for comfort.


	2. Chapter 2

“Alright, tough guy,” Hutch says, going around and opening the passenger side door for Starsky, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “Let me help you, okay? Just a few steps inside, and our beers and burgers are waiting.” 

Starsky had improved steadily over the week, though he was still weak and still occasionally experienced crippling cramps like he had that first day, but they had tapered off enough that he was off the hard painkillers and down to over the counter stuff. 

Hutch could already tell it wasn’t enough, but on the other hand he didn’t want his partner becoming addicted to opiates, either, so he got a prescription filled with two pills, in case he had a bad night or two, but no more. 

“No rush, burgers and fries are in the oven, beers in the fridge. We’ll take it slow,” Hutch continued, heaving Starsky to his feet. His partner had lost some weight and some color, and he still got short of breath from making it from the bed to the bathroom in the hospital, so part of their job was to get him walking around more while his body finished repairing itself. “I even got you some frozen yogurt for after dinner.” 

“I’m not so sure I want any dinner,” Starsky says; the worst thing about all this has been how delicate his stomach seems. He’d spent more time feeling queasy and throwing up these last few days than he ever has before in his life. It’s like his insides have staged a rebellion against him, and the rest of his body is in on the action. “Let me just lay down on your couch for a while.”

He doesn’t want to develop a dependency on painkillers, either, but it sure had been a lot easier to focus on anything else when he’d had them. 

Hutch’s brows knit together, but he nods, curling one arm under Starsky’s arms and wrapping the other protectively around his middle. 

“Sure. Couch is yours until bedtime. But I hope you change your mind, I don’t want to eat all those by myself, he says, as they make their way with tiny shuffling steps inside. “Doing great, almost there…” 

“I can  _ walk _ ,” Starsky protests, insisting on holding himself more or less upright as Hutch tries to baby him. He feels irritable, and Hutch’s hovering barely helps. He pulls away once they’re inside, one of his own hands cradled around his middle and he manages to shuffle toward the couch more or less alone. 

“I know you can,” Hutch says, far too patiently: he knows how to weather Starsky’s grouchiness, and what's more, he knows Starsky has good reason to be grouchy, so he doesn't retaliate, and lets Starsky make his own way, though he can't help hovering.

Starsky settles down on it with a groan, and then lays flat, grousing. “Why you gotta keep your place so  _ cold _ all the time? Don’t your plants like tropical weather?” 

“Sorry,” Hutch says, covering Starsky with a blanket before he goes to kick up the thermostat. He returns with a glass of water and two cold beers, offering one to Starsky. “Come on, you're in the clear. Bet the carbonation will feel good on your stomach.”

Starsky wrinkles up his nose, but takes one anyway. He wants it, even if his body is rebelling at the very thought. He pulls all the blankets off the back of Hutch’s couch and bunches them up around his body, trying to find a comfortable position. 

“I just want all this to be over,” he grouches, taking one sip of the beer, and then setting it aside to see if his stomach will rebel. “What good is it surviving the poison if I die of starvation, huh?”

“You won't die of starvation, Starsk. We'll find something you and your stomach can agree on,” Hutch says, sitting next to him and gingerly putting an arm around his shoulders. “It's almost time for some more aspirin.”

Hutch grabs the remote and offers it to Starsky, wishing he could trade places with him, somehow, so his partner wouldn't have to hurt like this. There was no reason Bellamy should have chosen to go after Starsk first. It wasn't fair. 

It feels better to just be in Hutch’s lap, so Starsky shifts, tugs, pulls, until he can get Hutch more or less under his head and shoulders, and then just reclines, one hand entwined with one of Hutch’s as he watches the TV unfussily for once, eyes glassy with focus, fingers occasionally squeezing Hutch’s as the tension goes through his body.

Hutch slouches, trying to make himself more comfortable to lie on, and rubs his back with his free hand. If Starsky could be pain-free like this, he’d stay here, unmoving, all night. 

It seems totally unfair that he can be laying still, not doing anything, and it still hurts. Then again, Hutch had gone through something similar when he was in recovery from being forcibly addicted to heroin. When whatever’s on TV fails to distract Starsky from what hurts, he changes the channel in an unending loop, frustrated. 

“Why don’t they ever show any good reruns?” Starsky demands, before settling on a western. He tries another sip of beer, regrets it, and turns over in Hutch’s lap, grouchy and restless. “Make there be baseball on TV.”

Hutch chuckles, regretfully, rubbing the back of Starsky’s neck, and then his stomach, since the beer doesn’t look like it’s going down well. 

“I could maybe get Kiko and his friends to start up a sandlot game outside where we could see it,” he offers. “But hey, let me get the paper, I’m sure there’ll be something on later tonight.” 

Actually, he can get the paper from here, as it’s resting on his couchside table, folded comics-side-out as a sign that said Kiko has been by today. He stretches, unsettling Starsky only slightly, and lays the comics page in front of his partner while he hunts through the TV guide. 

“Okay, no game tonight,” Hutch says, a little disappointed. “How about some  _ Wolfman  _ and  _ Dracula  _ reruns at eight? You could sleep til then, I’ll wake you up.” 

Starsky grunts, disagreeable with the whole situation, but Hutch doesn’t stop touching him and that’s soothing, at least. He’s able to get to sleep at last, and though he’s tired of sleeping all the time, he does put his arms around Hutch and holds on, and that’s comforting, too. Enough that he can let his guard down and sleep for more than a couple hours. 

Hutch is worried about Starsky, but he can’t let on when he’s awake, so he just sits with Starsky draped across him and clinging to him, and runs his hand through his hair and over his back, frowning. He works towards a massage of his limbs and everything he can reach, knowing it helps with the cramps. And since Starsky goes oddly limp in sleep, Hutch gathers him closer into his lap until he can rub his legs, too, and gently card his fingers through his hair, pressing his head against the side of his neck. 

Starsky doesn’t stir on his own, and Hutch almost regrets waking him up, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. He asks softly, so Starsky could ignore him if he wanted to, “You want to catch that  _ Dracula  _ movie? Or try some dinner?” 

Starsky pulls Hutch closer, holds him tighter. “No.”

“Hey, that’s fine, you can go back to sleep,” Hutch whispers, fingertips playing over the short hairs on the back of Starsky’s neck. 

He doesn’t  _ want _ any of those things, or at least in perspective he wants them less than to feel okay. Hutch is trying though, so Starsky shifts, and then finally untangles a little, reaching out and picking up the warm beer to drink; this time it’s a little easier on his stomach, and Hutch hands him some Tylenol, which he takes with the cautious air of a man whose body has betrayed him several times over the last few days. 

“Let’s…cuddle and watch Dracula,” Starsky says. “I’m not hungry, and I’ve learned to listen to my body about that. Don’t worry, when my stomach stops doing flip flops, I’ll eat you out of house and home.”

“That’s fair. But I’m gonna cut up some fruit on a bowl of yogurt in case you change your mind.” It sounds like a perfect dinner to Hutch, and he kisses Starsky’s cheek again as he gets up, tucking pillows and blankets around him in place of him. He moves the burgers from the oven to the fridge, and brings two tall glasses of water along with the bowls of yogurt topped with bananas and strawberries. “You don’t have to eat it, but it’s there if you want to try. Come here.” 

Cuddling, Hutch can gladly do, tucking himself into the side of the couch so Starsky can sprawl in his lap and Hutch can hold him close. They couldn’t do this in the hospital, so already Hutch considers this a step up. 

“I think this is about the only thing that makes me feel even a little better,” Starsky admits, as if he were a kid. It makes him feel childlike, but Hutch touches him and it feels better, just because he cares about Hutch, and knows Hutch cares about him. 

“Me, too, babe,” Hutch says, in case Starsky is worried he’s a burden even a little, and he adjusts him in his lap. 

Starsky even lets Hutch feed him a little fruit, and some of the yogurt, and normally that sort of food is too simple for him but the fruit goes down OK, like juice. Hutch eats the rest, and lets Starsky finish his beer and water at his own pace while he rubs his feet. 

“So if you had t’be a monster, which one would you be? The mummy, maybe?” Starsky asks, idly, half watching the movie and half watching Hutch. 

“What, like, any movie monster?” Hutch asks, pondering seriously. Starsky always comes up with little questions like this, when they’re bored on a stakeout, and he’s good at it. Maybe he’s bored a lot, or maybe he just thinks more than anyone gives him credit for. “Well, let’s see, what’ve we got? The mummy, wolfman, vampire, werewolf—is that different? From the wolfman, I mean? And—nosferatu? That different from vampire?” 

“I think werewolf and wolfman are the same,” Starsky says, tired, but his voice sounds more present than he has been the last few days. “Well, the makeup’s the same, anyway. I think nosferatu is different than vampire ‘cause with one you get like just a very attractive widow’s peak, and the other is just bald and needs a trip to the orthodontist. I guess Creature from the Black Lagoon and Frankenstein count too, huh?”

“Ooh, you know, I like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. That’s a pretty girl in that one,” Hutch murmurs appreciatively. “That’s not my answer, though. Hey, you could be King Kong, does he count? You might be too hairy.” 

He’s rubbing Starsky’s arm, thick with hair, and Hutch only teases him all the time because he’s so jealous. Starsky hooks an elbow gently into Hutch’s side by way of protest, growling.

“You’d be Godzilla,” Starsky grumbles. “Always kicking down cities for no real good reason, huh? Grouchy over the soiling of nature or something.”

“Ha!” Hutch laughs, bouncing Starsky a little on his chest. “Yeah, that’s good. I’d like to be Godzilla. You know, he could take any of the other guys easy. Just step on all his problems. Sounds nice. No red tape.” 

While they watch Dracula hissing at a cross around a girl’s neck, Hutch stops rubbing, tries to divine where Starsky hurts so he can help, but he knows Starsky won’t say, and will only laugh and tell him to stop if he asks. He tries two tacks this time, shins and spine, coming at the problem from either side. He feels Starsky’s stomach gurgle against him, but nothing more. “Which would you be?” 

Starsky shifts to let Hutch have better access to his back, pushing back into it when Hutch rubs the area over his kidneys, where it’s sorest, and seems to give consideration to the question. He watches the black and white picture on the screen, body relaxing slowly while Hutch rubs his back. Finally, he decides, firmly, “Wolfman.”

He glances back over his shoulder to give Hutch a grin. 

Hutch laughs, and kisses Starsky’s grin. “I could still step on you. Godzilla would totally win in a fight.”

Hutch's hands go gentler over soft organs, curling around Starsky's back and sides, like he can stimulate Starsky’s guts into working again. 

“What if the wolfman bit him?” Starsky threatens, stretching a little before his hands move into action as well, running over Hutch’s thigh where he can reach, before he starts rubbing where he can reach, too, gentle circles. It feels good to focus on Hutch in return. “Would he become a giant werewolf, or would wolfman become a godzilla?”

Hutch laughs brightly. He trusts Starsky’s monster knowledge over his own, certainly. “Is godzillism catching, now? I think you'd just have a wolf-godzilla, and what a pain that would be.”

Hutch's right hand is still rubbing Starsky’s back, almost like he's trying to put him to sleep. He lays a hand, grateful, over Starsky’s massaging fingers, and kisses his brow again. “You better be careful, there. I'm ticklish.”

“You keep  _ telling _ me your weaknesses,” Starsky says. “And then you say Godzilla could win.”

He turns over in Hutch’s lap, onto his back, and then reaches up to pull Hutch down for a kiss, slow and sweet. “Thanks for being so good to me, Hutch. I still hate all this, but at least I got good company.”

He pauses, one hand trailing slowly down Hutch’s chest, before suddenly tensing up on one side of his belly to threaten his ticklish spots; just enough to make Hutch jump. 

“Bu-huddy,” Hutch says, jumping and grabbing Starsky’s wayward hand, “in case you forgot, you're a walking weakness. I'm just trying to keep it fair. But you're welcome.”

Keeping Starsky’s hands pinned over his chest—a bit like Dracula, actually—Hutch kisses him again to shut him up. “How would you feel about a bath before bed? Be nice to be clean, right?”

Hutch does have a nice bathroom in this place, back in the master bedroom, with a big tub, maybe even big enough for the both of them, if Starsky curls up in his lap like he is now. 

“A bath sounds amazing,” Starsky says, rousing himself gently. He still feels pretty weak, but it’s not so bad with Hutch there to help, especially in his nice big tub. “As long as you don’t mean one of those hospital sponge baths.”

“No, no, I mean a nice big actual bath. Then roll you into a nice warm bed and tuck you in,” Hutch says, sitting up. “You finish the movie, I'll go get the water running.”

Hutch gently extricates himself, takes the dishes to the sink, and heads back to his room to clean the bath out a bit (he stores plants there ordinarily) before filling it up with nearly-hot water. He has some scented bath salts that Abby left here, and he uses these liberally, before going back for Starsky. 

Starsky meets him in the doorway of his bedroom, with a sheepish shrug. “I’m doin’ okay right now. Figure I’d better get used to lugging my own carcass around again. Also…it smells like Abigail in here.”

“Not a problem, is it?” Hutch asks, crossing the room to him to help him the last few feet to the bathroom, and adds, teasing his girlfriend who isn't here, “I thought you liked the smell of patchouli.”

He takes his shirt off anyway, and leans on Hutch when it seems to matter that he does so. It’s a little clumsy, but they both make it into the bath, and Starsky groans as the hot water engulfs him, like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. 

“I am never getting out,” Starsky says. “You can bring me food in in here like a roman emperor.”

“Oh, you're eating now?” Hutch asks, wedging himself in behind Starsky so he has something to lean on—this tub did not exactly have a comfortable leaning edge if you’re in here on your own. “You can stay here as long as you like.”

“It can’t go on forever that I don’t,” Starsky says. “My appetite will come back. I have to believe that or existence becomes meaningless.”

Hutch laughs and tugs Starsky back against him, and lathers up a washcloth to start scrubbing over his arms and chest. “How's that feel?”

“Lower,” Starsky suggests playfully, and then when Hutch starts to oblige he repeats. “Lower. Now you’re getting the right idea.”

Hutch rolls his eyes, but if Starsky wants him to give his balls a soapy tumble Hutch will oblige, kissing the side of his neck and drawing back from his ministrations just when Starsky moves his hips into it, teasing, “Ah-ah. We're  _ relaxing _ .”

“Hutch, have you ever seen me  _ more _ relaxed than right after we’ve been messing around?”

But he’s not going to get anywhere, so Starsky shifts and just tries to float for a little while, letting his head rest back against Hutch’s shoulder, just letting his body go loose and comfortable while Hutch soaps him up. He shifts, then, as a cramp starts to come on in his belly, fingers going tense on the edge of the tub, but he’s not going to curl up into a ball and die every time this happens, so he just sets his jaw, holds on tight, and goes quiet while he tries to ride it out. 

Hutch had been seriously considering Starsky’s suggestion when the cramp takes him and kills all amorous thoughts in both of them. Hutch holds him tight, whispering little encouragements that probably help him more than they help Starsky, knowing there's nothing he can do but let it pass.

When he can catch his breath again, Starsky sighs, goes pointedly silent on the matter. He’s already complained enough about it. 

“Ah, I got my shaving kit right here, if you want to look a little less Wolfman today,” Hutch finally says, a distraction for both of them.

“You gonna lend me a hand with that?” Starsky asks, voice still a little tight, but he’s starting to slowly ease out of the tense position he’d been in, getting loose again. “I’m trusting you not to cut my nose off, you know.”

“Sure,” Hutch says, tilting Starsky’s head back against his shoulder, rubbing the tight tendons on the side of his neck lightly until he relaxes. He squeezes over Starsky’s hand where he’s whiteknuckling the side of the tub, prying his fingers gently free, whispering, “It’s okay. You’re okay.” 

He moves to running one hand up and down Starsky’s arm, and the other through his curls, as Starsky begins to breathe again, and his muscles relax. Only when he’s sure Starsky won’t lock up on him again does Hutch move his shaving mirror into position so he can see Starsky’s face, and start lathering up Starsky’s chin and neck. 

“How far down you want me to go?” Hutch teases, working the last of the lather from his neck down into his chest hair. 

“You’re pushing your luck,” Starsky warns, but he makes no move to push Hutch away, instead letting him turn and move his chin however he likes as he gets the safety razor wet and examines what angle he wants to come at Starsky’s ten-o’clock-shadow from. “Just remember, I know where you sleep. You get frisky and I’ll come for your sideburns.”

“Ooh, that’s low, Starsk, you know it takes me weeks to grow those out properly,” Hutch chuckles, pressing two fingers down on Starsky’s forehead to keep him still just in case as he runs the razor up his throat and over his jawline. He moves him slightly and repeats the motion, and is glad to catch sight of Starsky’s eyes sliding closed. The cramps really seem to take it out of him, which isn’t good, but it is good to see him relaxing now. 

“Not any lower than taking advantage of a sick man,” Starsky says, quiet, just surrendering to let Hutch take care of him. “Besides, if you don’t go overboard, I won’t have any need for revenge, huh?”

This moment between them is okay; personal, private. Sometimes, Starsky wishes Hutch would be a little less prickly about certain things, but when it counts he’s always there, and always willing to give whatever it takes to take care of Starsky. Cracking his eyes open just a little, Starsky watches Hutch’s face in the mirror he’s holding up to see what he’s doing; the focus and softness of his expression, and it makes even his tired heart get warm, his whole body feels better.

“Hey,” Starsky says, in an instant where Hutch is rinsing the razor. “You know, I really love you.”

Hutch is lost in the movement, in the task of shaving Starsky’s beard off, and he is almost startled by the sentiment. He blinks, looks at Starsky in the mirror, half expecting him to be teasing, or that way of teasing he has where he goes too serious and therefore must be sarcastic, but Starsky’s face is open and just a little vulnerable. 

“Well, if it takes you nearly dying to admit that,” Hutch teases, but instantly regrets it. He puts the razor down and sighs, because he has to surrender, too, for this to work. 

“No, look, I’m sorry,” Hutch admits, whisper-soft, and wraps both arms around Starsky’s chest. “I really love you, too, Starsk. I’m—” 

Hutch takes a deep breath, holds it in like he’s thinking about what to say, and releases it shakily. Just thinking about how close it was this time, how really close he came to losing his partner, his best friend, his lover, all in twenty-four hours, makes his heart start thumping into a panic. “I’m glad you’re gonna be okay.” 

“More than okay,” Starsky agrees, reaching up and getting his hands over Hutch’s, giving a reassuring squeeze. “I'm sorry it  _ did _ take so long to say it. Sure as hell didn't take so long to feel it.”

“Me, too,” Hutch says, kissing Starsky’s damp hair and just holding him.

He waits a beat, and then says, “You're not a half bad barber, you know.”

“I wasn't done,” Hutch chuckles, wipes his eyes. “Need you to make the face so I can get the corners of your mouth. Not sure why I bothered since its gonna be a full moon tonight.”

He knows Starsky can see him in the mirror still, and winks. 

“What if I just tried out a new facial hair style?” Starsky wonders, but he obliges Hutch to give him access to where he wants to shave, letting him get the corners of his mouth, and over his lip for the early vestiges of a moustache. He scoops water against his face when Hutch is done, rinsing, and then presses a kiss to Hutch’s cheek. 

“You're sweet,” Hutch comments, and runs a little more hot water to warm up the bath. “Wanna stay in here til we get pruney?” 

He punctuates the question with a real kiss, turning Starsky over in his arms so he doesn't have to crane his neck so much, and runs his hands over him, soothing, but promising more. 

“Hate to break it to you, but I’m already a little pruney,” Starsky says, leaning into Hutch, comfortable in the warm water and leaning up to kiss him before he rests his cheek against Hutch’s shoulder and goes as limp as he can. “And I don’t feel sweet at all. I feel like one I’m one wrong thing away from a rampage with a body count.”

Hutch chuckles again, hand retreating from where it had been heading down Starsky’s chest and belly toward something more amorous. “Well, I'll be so glad to see you at 100% again I'll let you hit me first, how’s that?” 

“You can keep that up,” Starsky instructs. “I figure I already had one cramp, it can’t happen again for a good half an hour, right?” 

As if to make his point a little clearer, he shifts himself over Hutch’s lap and gets his own hands in on the action, though there’s no visible movement above the water line, at least face to face like this it’s easy for him to get his hands on Hutch’s cock, in a little ‘thank goodness we’re both alive’ victory celebration that he wouldn’t put off if his whole body was in traction and he could still move his fingers. 

“Still haven’t tried this method for working  _ out  _ the cramps,” Hutch says, half-teasing and half genuinely suggesting it as he begins working over his cock in earnest. He gasps, lightly, when Starsky threatens to distract him. “Easy, buddy. I’m supposed to be focusing on  _ you… _ ”

And he  _ is  _ focused on Starsky, on how real he feels in his hands, how they’re floating, supported by the water and each other, kissing and tasting slightly of soap. 

Starsky breathes out, soft hot air against Hutch’s collarbone as they each stroke each other slowly, all soft and affectionate in a way they normally set aside in the rush and heat of things. He can feel how Hutch gets hard for him, how their bodies just respond to each other. It’s comfortable, and he knows just how to get Hutch to groan. Hutch knows more than a few tricks of his own, and Starsky doesn’t bother to keep his voice down. He just closes his eyes and  _ feels _ , lets Hutch work him up, work him over until Starsky’s muffling his groans and cries against Hutch’s skin and repays the favor. 

They’re whimpering like teenagers by the end, biting and kissing open-mouthed and sloppy, and the crest is more of a slow and gentle wave than a crash when they come—Starsky first only because Hutch was holding back and thinking too much and not because Starsky’s handjob skills were at all diminished. 

“That’s it, that’s it,” Hutch encourages, working Starsky through it and then pulling him close, wrapping both arms around him. “I’ve got you, gorgeous. Just relax, I got you.” 

Starsky hangs on, easy and loose, drifting quiet and comfortable for the first time in a few days, even though the water's going cold now. After a few minutes, when he has his breath back, he laughs a little.

“That's all clean already, huh? We should get frisky in your bath more often.”


End file.
